


A Mindful Friend

by IAmANonnieMouse



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Backstory, Canon-Compliant, Friendship, High School to College to Beyond, Introvert Arthur, M/M, Mild Language, Protective Eames, Slow Build, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, like molasses slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-06-07 21:03:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6824026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/pseuds/IAmANonnieMouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames finds Arthur’s eyes again. He can always find Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I shouldn't be posting something new, since I have other ongoing projects... *glances nervously at [Unchained Melody](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5952099)* but this idea popped into my head, and I couldn't help it...
> 
> (I had the absolute worst time coming up with a title for this. And I don't really like what I came up with. I'm open to suggestions for a better one!)

Arthur sees things differently. He’s known this for as long as he can remember. It isn’t like the movies, where things light up and numbers float in the air in front of him; it’s just that there is something inherently different about the way his mind works. He doesn’t know _how_ it’s different, just that it is.

His mother told him he has just the right amount of smarts—not so much that he has a brilliant, coldly calculating, semi-emotionless mind, but enough that he isn’t quite the same as everyone around him. His mother tells him that this is a great thing. Arthur thinks it’s a fine thing, most times.

Arthur’s also a bit of a control freak. His mother thinks it’s his way of coping with the irregularities of his childhood, which are mysteries to both of them. His mother told him that when she adopted him, he was already sitting up, alert, watching everything with an inquisitive stare. His mother also told him that when she adopted him, he habitually refused to eat or drink. Even now, Arthur sometimes forgets to eat when he’s practicing a piano song or caught up in a book or working on an etching.

Arthur loves patterns—loves to sit in the same seat every time, loves to have a routine to follow. If he sits in a different seat, it isn’t the end of the world for him. But it bothers him, just a little.

He loves hugs, loves touch—but because he loves control more, he can’t stand for other people to touch him if he doesn’t trust them, doesn’t feel comfortable with them. He hugs his mom every morning before leaving for school and every night when she gets home from work, and a few more times in between, and it’s enough for him.

Arthur doesn’t love school. It is, in a word, torture. Arthur finds the lessons boring and monotonous, his fellow students even more so. He learns early on that the other kids aren't interested in a seemingly brilliant student who is a foot smaller than most of them—and two years younger. They don't seem inclined to listen to Arthur explain how his apparent genius is the well-earned result of years and hours of work. So Arthur keeps to himself, hides in his books and his art and his music, and it's enough for him.

His life, while gratingly unengaging at times, is regular and familiar and follows a familiar pattern. It's simple and pleasing, and for Arthur, it's enough. For years, it's enough.

Then, in high school, a new student transfers into the school system, and everything becomes complicated and unfamiliar and anxiety-inducing—and unmistakably _intriguing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random tangent for people who've read my other fics:  
> So when I start writing these, I never have a title in mind, but I always save everything obsessively, so they end up having uninteresting titles on my computer. [Unchained Melody](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5952099) is labelled "ArthurEames Voice AU." [Something Special](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5671387) is "ArthurEames Soulmate AU," and so on. I'm very creative, I know.
> 
> So I just want you all to know that this fic is saved on my computer as "ArthurEames FriendZone AU." (Belated spoiler alert?)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames scans the entire cafeteria, then stops at the sight of a small figure sitting by himself at a table in the back corner.
> 
> Eames is walking over there before consciously giving his legs the command. “Hello,” he says brightly, placing his tray on the table across from the boy. Eames vaguely recognizes him from some of his classes. “Mind if I join you?”
> 
> The boy looks up from his book, a small furrow between his eyebrows, glances up at Eames, down at the tray on the table, then back at his book. “Sure,” he says with a shrug.

When Eames rolls out of bed in the morning, he usually lands on his feet in a sloppy, half-upright sprawl. He's been doing it for years, rolling until he tips off the edge of the mattress, using that second’s jolt of adrenaline to wake him up more effectively than his feebly determined alarm clock.

So when he rolls out of his bed Monday morning and lands face first on the floor, he takes a breath, groans, and knows it's destined to be a bad day.

He slowly pushes himself upright, rubs his face.

“Bugger,” he mutters.

“Junior!” his mother calls. “Breakfast!”

“Bugger,” he mutters again.

He manages to make it down the stairs without inflicting on himself any serious, lasting bodily harm, and he sits (collapses) in the chair that his sister usually claims. He's bored with his view of the fridge, so he thinks he'll learn what the view from the other side of the table is like.

His mother places a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast in front of him and kisses the top of his head, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and almost hitting Eames in the face with the spatula she's holding.

“Are you excited?” she asks him.

“No,” he says. “Not at all.”

She squeezes his shoulders. “Don't be like that, it'll be fun!”

He grunts.

The stairs creak softly as his sister makes her way down. She blearily glares at Eames before taking his customary seat. “Morning, mum,” she says, lifting her face toward her mother's kiss.

“Are you excited, Theresa?” his mom asks.

Tess makes a face and grumbles non-committally.

The stairs groan, and Eames and his sister quickly turn to look. Their father lumbers downstairs, already dressed for work in his usual three-piece suit.

“Good morning,” Eames, Sr. says with a nod.

“Morning,” Eames and his sister respond.

Eames, Sr. takes his seat at the head of the table and nods to his wife as she sets his plate in front of him.

He eats in fast, economical mouthfuls. “Junior,” he says without looking up from his food, pointing his knife at Theresa, “I expect you to do well today.”

Eames forces a smile on his face. “Of course, dad,” he says.

“You too, Tess,” his father continues, now aiming his knife at Eames.

“Yes, father,” she says, shooting a look across the table at Eames.

Eames quirks an eyebrow.

Tessa rolls her eyes.

Almost in unison they excuse themselves, stand up, and go back upstairs to their rooms.

“My God,” Tessa mutters once they’re upstairs. She follows Eames into his room and shuts the door. “Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

Eames sprawls on his unmade bed. “Tired of what?”

“Dad,” Tessa says, sitting on the edge of his desk. She crosses her arms. “I get that he’s the one making the money and everything, but really, he didn’t even notice we were in different seats!”

Eames shrugs. “It’s how he is.”

Tessa sighs loudly. “I’m sick of hearing that.”

Eames pushes himself upright and walks over to his closet. “Don’t know what to tell you, Tess,” he says, grabbing a shirt and pair of pants. “It’s the way it is.”

Tessa rolls her eyes. “I’m well aware, Thomas,” she says. “So, anyway. Ready for your first day at another new school?”

Eames snorts. “Of course not. You?”

“Of course not.”

Eames pats her on the shoulder. “Maybe we’ll get used to this after another couple of transfers.”

Tessa shudders. “God, I hope not.”

~+~+~

Eames’ new school is just like all the others: harshly segregated into various cliques, annoyingly shallow, and unmistakably a place where he doesn’t belong.

He makes it through the first half of the day without too much trouble. He gets lost only twice, he isn’t singled out by any posturing teens, and his classmates seem relatively uninterested in him—as uninterested as kids can be in a new kid at school.

At lunch, he is, of course, caught in that high-school-movie moment where he doesn’t know who to sit with. He glances around the cafe, holding his tray in front of him. Theresa is in the other lunch—because, of course, this school has two different lunch times—so he is adrift.

His eyes pass over the over-muscular jocks and make-up-laden cheerleaders. They pause at the table of apparent drama kids, wearing _Hairspray_ t-shirts and chattering madly, but Eames decides he wants to start entirely anew this time and passes over them as well. He scans the entire cafeteria, then stops at the sight of a small figure sitting by himself at a table in the back corner.

Eames is walking over there before consciously giving his legs the command. “Hello,” he says brightly, placing his tray on the table across from the boy. Eames vaguely recognizes him from some of his classes. “Mind if I join you?”

The boy looks up from his book, a small furrow between his eyebrows, glances up at Eames, down at the tray on the table, then back at his book. “Sure,” he says with a shrug.

“Brilliant,” Eames says. He digs into his food and steals glances at his lunch companion, taking in the short dark hair, the intense eyes, the neat, put-together outfit. The boy idly picks at the lunch he brought with him, taking a bite of his sandwich every five pages.

“Name’s Eames,” he offers, trying to get a better feel for the kid.

“Arthur,” the boy responds, glancing up again before returning to his book.

Eames ponders that for a moment. It’s a fitting name. “What are you reading?”

Arthur holds his book higher so Eames can see the cover.

“Oh, _Lord of the Rings_? I’ve always meant to read them, but I haven’t had the time. I like the movies, though. It any good?”

There’s a noticeable pause before Arthur answers. “Yeah.”

Eames nods. “I’ll let you get back to it then.”

Arthur’s eyes dart to the side, but he doesn’t look at Eames again for the rest of lunch.

The bell rings, and Eames and Arthur gather their things. Arthur stumbles slightly when standing, and Eames instinctively grabs his arm to catch him. Arthur stiffens, pulls away, and heads to class, head down, book cradled in his arms.

Eames watches him leave. “Hm,” he mutters. “That was interesting.”

“Get to class!” a teacher bellows at the few students still in the cafeteria.

Eames jumps slightly and pulls out his schedule. Advanced Placement Physics B, Course 1. He makes a face. At the very least, the pain should keep him from thinking about Arthur some more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur doesn’t know how he feels about Eames. What kind of a name is Eames, anyway?

Arthur doesn’t know how he feels about Eames. What kind of a name is Eames, anyway? It’s an unusual one, definitely. Arthur wonders if it’s not his first name. There are plenty of people who like to use a nickname instead of their given name. 

He wonders how Eames spells “Eames.” He writes down his ideas in the margins of his Calculus notes.

 _Eems._ That looks disgusting.

 _Emes._ Not much better.

 _Eims._ That looks vaguely elvish. It probably isn’t correct, then.

 _Eemes._ Arthur likes the symmetry of it, the “m” directly in the middle. But it still doesn’t look right.

“Mr. Levine, please take the derivative of this polynomial,” the teacher says.

Arthur glances at the board. “X to the fourth plus three x squared minus seven,” he rattles off.

“Thank you, Mr. Levine.”

Arthur goes back to his brainstorming.

 _Eyms._ No way.

 _Eemms?_ No.

_E--_

“Mr. Levine, what is the slope of the tangent line at x equals four?”

Arthur sighs. He’s never going to figure this out if he keeps getting interrupted like this.

~+~+~

Eames eats lunch with him every day now. Arthur doesn’t know what to think of it.

He’s grown accustomed to being left alone, and he is more than slightly uncomfortable in the center of someone’s attention.

At the same time, he likes Eames-whose-name-Arthur-still-doesn’t-know-how-to-spell. Eames is pleasant and always chats with Arthur right when he sits down, but then he stays quiet and lets Arthur read for the rest of lunch. Arthur appreciates that, even as he wonders if he’s being rude and should be making more of an effort to be social. But then Arthur doesn’t know what he would say, and he gets anxious just trying to imagine what a conversation between the two of them would entail, and he ends up sticking his nose in his book just like the day before.

~+~+~

Eames is in four of his seven classes. Arthur isn’t keeping track or anything; he just notices patterns. And Eames is a new pattern for him to follow.

They have World History, English, Latin, and Physics together. All advanced (except for Latin because his school is stupid and refuses to acknowledge that Latin is actually a challenging, important language, dead or not). Eames always sits in the back of the room. Arthur always sits in front. Eames nods and smiles at Arthur whenever he walks by to get to his seat. Arthur nods back. Starts smiling after a few weeks.

~+~+~

“So,” Eames says. Arthur frowns. He’s in the middle of a battle, and lunch is almost over. “You doing anything after school today?”

Arthur looks up at him. “What?”

Eames smiles. “You doing anything after school today?”

“Why?”

“Thought we could work on that project,” he says with an easy shrug.

Arthur blinks. Processes. “Which project?”

“The Latin one. About Ovid?”

Arthur stares.

“We were partnered.”

“We were?”

Eames chuckles. “Yes, but you were reading, so I’m not surprised you missed it. Luckily, you’ve got me looking out for you.”

Arthur blinks again. Smiles slightly. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay, you want to work on the project after school today?” Eames clarifies.

“Yeah.” Arthur shrugs. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Brilliant,” Eames says. He’s probably smiling, but Arthur can’t look to confirm--he has only three pages left in this chapter, and the bell’s about to ring.

~+~+~

Eames meets him at his locker after school. “So, my house or yours?”

Arthur frowns slightly. “I was thinking the library.” 

He wonders if it is was wrong to assume, but his mom’s at work, so they can’t go to his house, and he isn’t sure he wants to go to Eames’ because, well, that might be weird, right? And people don’t usually go to other people’s houses out of the blue, right? Or do they? But either way, _Arthur_ doesn’t want to go to Eames’ house out of the blue, so that’s that, but how does he tell Eames that, and should he have clarified that at lunch instead of reading some more? But the chapter was so good, and he finished it just in time, so it worked out well, but did it? And--  
_  
“Arthur.”_

Arthur blinks and focuses on Eames again. Eames-whose-name-Arthur-still-doesn’t-know-how-to-spell.

“How do you spell your name?” he blurts.

Eames raises his eyebrows and smiles softly. “E-a-m-e-s,” he says.

“Oh.” Arthur pictures it. Nice balance. “That makes sense.”

Eames is still smiling. He’s always smiling. Why is he always smiling? “The library is perfectly fine, Arthur,” he says. “Do you want to head right over?”

Arthur blinks again. He’s blinking a lot more than usual, he thinks. “Sure.”

Eames gestures towards the exit grandly. “After you, my dear,” he says.

Arthur doesn’t let himself ponder that.

~+~+~

Eames is a great partner, and Arthur loses track of time as they read through Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_ and translate and look up words they don’t know.

“What do you think of Pyramus and Thisbe, Arthur?” Eames asks at one point.

“They’re both idiots. Who decides to meet at night, in the dark, in the woods? And who would kill themselves when they thought their supposed true love was dead?”

Eames tsks. “Arthur, where is your sense of romance? It was a tragic event caused, in part, because they loved each other so passionately, so fully.”

Arthur shrugs, searching his dictionary for the verb in line 22. He thinks it might be a deponent. “Well, who would ever want to be so in love with someone that they don’t think right? That’s crazy.”

Eames doesn’t answer for a long time. A long enough time that Arthur actually notices, and looks up. “Eames?”

There’s a strange look on Eames’ face. “I think some people dream of loving someone that much, of having someone else love them like that.”

Arthur frowns. “Huh,” he says. He files that away.

They keep working, then Arthur’s phone rings. He answers it. “Hi, mom, what’s going on?”

“Arthur, are you still at the library? I just got home.”

“You did?” Arthur glances at his watch. “I didn’t realize…”

His mom chuckles. “I know. Do you want me to come pick you up?”

“Yes, please,” he says, looking out at the dark world outside the window.

“Ask your friend if he needs a ride.”

Arthur obediently does, and Eames grins brightly and says he’d be delighted, thank you ever so much.

So that is how Arthur ends up learning where Eames lives.

And that is how Arthur learns that Eames is really Eames’ last name.

Because that is how Arthur ends up meeting Eames’ father.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames is more than happy to wade in and help Arthur when the poor kid looks way out of his depth. It’s the least he can do for his only friend at this new school.
> 
> So he pays attention more carefully than he used to in his classes, because he knows that Arthur likes to get lost in his own head and loses track of time. And he doesn’t take it personally when Arthur completely ignores him, shuts him out. He just makes sure he’s there when Arthur reemerges.

Eames likes Arthur. He likes him a lot. Sure, Arthur’s really quiet, and Eames thinks they’ve exchanged all of a handful of words in the months they’ve known each other, but there’s something intriguing about him. 

Eames likes to watch Arthur, secretly. Observe his mannerisms, take note of what bothers Arthur most, what makes him smile. He likes doing that.

~+~+~

When he got home that first day, Tessa came into his room.

“So,” she said, drawing out the word, “did you make any new friends?”

Eames grinned. “You first.”

She flopped dramatically on his bed. “Thomas!” She giggled. “Fine. His name’s Dominic.”

Eames squinted. “That’s one of the most hideous names I’ve ever heard.”

Tess glared at him. “Don’t be like that. He’s really fantastic. He loves to talk about dreams and fantasy, and he has the most amazing mind!”

Eames rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure he does.”

Tess sat up, her hair slightly unkempt. “What about you, then?”

“What about me?” he echoed coyly.

“Who did you meet?”

Eames shrugged. “His name is much better than _Dominic.”_

_“Thomas.”_

“Arthur. His name’s Arthur.”

“Don’t make me come over there and force it out of you,” Tess threatened.

Eames rolled his eyes. “He’s quiet. Likes to read. Top of the class. Seems nice.”

Tess snorted. “That’s the most _un_ -informative description I’ve ever heard.”

“What can I say?” Eames shrugged and smirked. “He’s quiet.”

“Doesn’t seem like your usual type.”

“I have a type?”

“You know you do. So, this Arthur. You’re going to take care of him, right?”

Eames raised his eyebrow. “Pardon?”

Tess shrugged. “If he’s quiet, lonely, he’s going to be vulnerable. Take care of him, okay, Eames? I’ve seen how you are with others… Promise me you aren’t going to do that to him.”

Eames frowned. “Alright. I promise.”

~+~+~

Months later, Eames understands only too well what Tessa meant, and he’s more than happy to wade in and help Arthur when the poor kid looks way out of his depth. It’s the least he can do for his only friend at this new school.

So he pays attention more carefully than he used to in his classes, because he knows that Arthur likes to get lost in his own head and loses track of time. And he doesn’t take it personally when Arthur completely ignores him, shuts him out. He just makes sure he’s there when Arthur reemerges.

~+~+~

The night that they study in the library starts out as a lovely evening, just the two of them surrounded in quiet, although Eames doubts he gets that much work done, staring at Arthur more often than not.

Then Arthur’s mother calls, and she drives Eames home, with Eames’ legs pressed up against the back of Arthur’s seat. And Eames sees his father’s silhouette in the doorway, and he realizes that he doesn’t want Arthur anywhere near this.

“Dad,” he says, only halfway out of the car. “Dad, I can explain.”

“Junior,” Eames, Sr. says. “Get inside.”

Eames swallows, glances over at Arthur, and hurries inside, head down. “Junior,” his mother whispers, “do you know what time it is? Your father and I were so worried.”

He grinds his teeth at that and says nothing. He goes to his room and presses his face against the glass. Tess comes in and leans against his side, resting her head on his shoulder, and together they watch Eames, Sr. approach Ms. Natalie Levine.

Eames, Sr. gesticulates wildly. Ms. Natalie Levine squares her shoulders. Eames, Sr. points threateningly. Ms. Natalie Levine crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows. Eames, Sr. throws his hands in the air and stalks back inside the house.

“Junior!” he shouts. Eames can’t contain his twitch.

He watches Ms. Natalie Levine get back in the car, drive away slowly. He looks at Arthur in the passenger window, sees Arthur’s eyes staring back at his.

“Junior!” Eames, Sr. shouts again.

Tessa presses a quick kiss against his shoulder for luck and slips out of his room.

Eames takes a deep breath for strength, and leaves his room to face his father.

It’s a long, loud night.

When Eames finally falls asleep, it’s to the sound of Eames, Sr. telling his mother, “I don’t want him anywhere near that boy! He’s a bad influence, and he’s not all normal besides! Don’t tell me to quiet down! I do what I want in my own damn house! He’s going to stay far away from that kid and his unmarried mother!”

~+~+~

Eames goes straight over to Arthur at the beginning of class. Arthur glances up at him confusedly, used to Eames simply walking by with a smile.

“Listen,” he whispers, bending down slightly. “I’m sorry about my dad. He’s a bit…”

Arthur watches him.

“Yeah,” Eames finishes weakly. “So, sorry about that whole...thing. I didn’t intend for that to happen.”

He stares at Arthur, and Arthur stares back. The bell rings. Eames quickly rushes to his seat.

~+~+~

Eames, Sr. has no control over what Eames does in school. That’s what Eames tells himself every morning. Nothing changes in his and Arthur’s daily routine. Eames makes sure of it.

And he and Arthur never speak of that night again.

~+~+~

They have to present their Latin project at the front of the class. Arthur is barely breathing the entire time they’re standing in front of the board, his chest trembling. The device that their teacher hands them, which is supposed to trigger slide changes, stops working mid-presentation, so Eames has to stand at the teacher’s computer. His eyes flit from Arthur to the computer screen to the teacher to Arthur. Arthur, who gets stiffer and stiller with each passing minute.

When they sit, Eames steals the empty desk at Arthur’s side and puts a hand on his shoulder, lightly. He knows something’s wrong when Arthur doesn’t immediately shake it off.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks. “Come on, Arthur. Breathe. Deep breath. There you go.”

His hand moves in small circles, feeling all the sensitive tremors running through Arthur’s small frame.

“I’m fine,” Arthur breathes a few moments later. He’s still shaking, but he shrugs off Eames’ hand and hunches down around himself. The bell for lunch rings, and Eames waits with Arthur in the classroom, long after everyone else is long gone, until Arthur is comfortable enough to head to the cafeteria.

_He’s going to be vulnerable._

_Yeah, Tess,_ Eames thinks as he watches Arthur pull himself together. _Yeah, he is._

When Arthur takes a deep breath and sits upright again, Eames forces a gentle smile on his face as he stands. “Ready for some food, then? I bet you can finish your chapter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should put "slow burn" in the tags, but the implies that there's going to be a cataclysmic-revelation-scene and yay-relationship-scene, and there isn't... The most significant issues in life. How to tag AO3 fics.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames keeps talking to Arthur, and Arthur doesn’t exactly know why. Arthur doesn’t know many things when it comes to Eames.

Eames keeps talking to Arthur, and Arthur doesn’t exactly know why. Arthur doesn’t know many things when it comes to Eames.

One thing he does know, though, is that he really, _really_ doesn’t like Eames’ father.

He doesn’t like how loud he is. He doesn’t like how much he uses his large build to intimidate people. And he absolutely doesn’t like how he makes Eames so nervous and uncertain.

_Listen, I’m sorry about my dad._

Arthur makes idle patterns in his notes’ margin, loops and concentric circles and squares.

_He’s a bit...yeah._

Arthur clenches his jaw and drags his pen harshly through the organized curls and boxes.

He turns to a clean page.

~+~+~

One day, Eames sits down at lunch with a giant cardboard turkey. Arthur stares at it for a moment before returning to his book.

“What do you think of Tom?” Eames asks.

“Is Tom the turkey?”

“Yes.”

“I think he’s a perfectly acceptable cardboard turkey.”

“Brilliant.”

Arthur can’t help but glance up quickly to catch a glimpse of Eames’ smile. He feels the corners of his mouth curl slightly.

He looks back down at his book, finishes the paragraph.

“Alexander Hamilton,” he says, “had his troops dig trenches around Yorktown, and the British soldiers started firing at them. But they couldn’t reach them with their guns, so Hamilton ordered his men out of the trenches and had them run through parade drills. In front of the British, outside Yorktown, while the British were trying to shoot them.”

He licks his lips and looks up.

Eames is grinning broadly. _Brilliantly,_ as Eames would say.

Arthur flushes. Looks down again. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Hamilton was a character.”

“Indeed he was,” Eames says.

They pass the rest of their lunch in quiet.

When the bell rings, Eames reaches out then stops, his hand hesitating in the air a few inches away from Arthur’s arm.

“Umm,” Eames says. He drops his hand. “Look, I was just...mum is having a Thanksgiving thing this weekend, and she wants to know if you and your mum would like to join us?”

Arthur blinks. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll check with my mom and let you know?”

“Oh, yeah.” Eames shuffles his feet and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, yeah, absolutely. Sure.”

“Okay,” Arthur says. He smiles.

~+~+~

The party is just getting started when Arthur and his mother arrive. Arthur’s fingers idly pick at the foil molded over the top of the pan in his lap while his mother parks.

“Are you excited?” she asks him.

He shrugs. “I don’t know what to expect.”

She smiles and rubs his shoulder. “Neither do I. Let’s go find out together.”

Eames is running down the stairs when they get out of the car, and he darts over to Arthur’s side. “Here, I’ll take that,” he says. His fingers brush Arthur’s as he carefully grabs the pan. He dashes back inside while Arthur stares at him.

He looks over at his mother, who’s smiling. “What is it with everyone smiling all the time?” he mumbles.

She rubs his back. “I think you’re going to have a wonderful time, Arthur.”

He does.

Eames and his sister Theresa-call-me-Tessa keep him company, and they help prevent Arthur from every getting too nervous or overwhelmed. Because there are a _lot_ of people here, and Arthur can’t possibly keep track of everyone.

But he does notice that Eames and Theresa-call-me-Tessa very carefully, casually, consistently avoid Eames, Sr. for the entire afternoon. Arthur really doesn’t mind that.

“So how do you like school, Arthur?” Theresa-call-me-Tessa asks.

“It’s alright,” he answers.

“Arthur’s top of the class,” Eames says, “so I think it’s bit better than alright for him.”

Arthur flushes. “It’s fine,” he says.

Theresa-call-me-Tessa laughs. “I bet you get bored,” she says. Arthur looks at her, nonplussed. She smiles just like Eames. “If I were top of the class, I’d be bored out of my mind when the teacher has to teach the same thing over and over and over to the rest of the kids who don’t pay attention and never understand what’s going on.”

Arthur stares at her, feels his mouth curling. “Yeah.”

She gently knocks her shoulder against his. “So what do you do to keep yourself occupied, then? Count ceiling tiles?”

“Too boring,” Arthur says with a grin. “I’ve taught myself to write backwards. Strill trying to figure that out in cursive, but in print, I’m fine. I doodle. Write stories. Read other people’s stories.”

Theresa-call-me-Tessa casually places her hand on his shoulder, the touch not too light and not too heavy. Arthur can’t help but relax into it. She smiles, something in her eyes telling him that she knows. “Want something else to drink?”

Arthur nods, and the touch leaves.

~+~+~

“Thanks,” Arthur says when Eames sits down at lunch on Monday. “For the invite. I had fun.”

Eames grins. “Me too. Tess loves you.”

Arthur frowns. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, no,” Eames chuckles. “I just mean that you completely charmed her. She spent the weekend asking me when she could see you again.”

“Oh.” Arthur glances down at his book.

“Any other fun facts for me today?” Eames asks.

Arthur smiles. “Hamilton’s friends called him ‘the little lion’ because he was short but tenacious.”

Eames chuckles. “Little lion. I like it.”

~+~+~

Eames asks him for his phone number later that week. Arthur gets a text that evening.

_Sleep well, little lion._

Arthur dreams that night of lions and cardboard turkeys and Eames.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames leans across the table, invading Arthur’s personal space. He tries not to read into it too much when Arthur doesn’t move away. “Arthur,” Eames says in a mock whisper, “you’re getting me into all sorts of trouble.”
> 
> Arthur pats Eames on the head. “From what it sounds like, that’s nothing new.”

Eames has been working steadily over the months to achieve a single goal: gain Arthur’s trust. The kind of trust where Arthur doesn’t hide his anxieties from Eames, the kind of trust where Arthur even lets Eames support him when he needs it.

Eames knows it’s a bit of a pipe dream, but he’s always been one for fantasy.

So he remains constant, always there when Arthur needs him, always there even when Arthur doesn’t, and although he feels himself fall for Arthur more every day, with every fun fact from the book he’s reading, with every secret smile, Eames doesn’t even think about acting on that attraction. Because he’d rather have Arthur as a friend than not have Arthur at all.

And so they develop a routine of sorts, a comfortable pattern of behavior, and Arthur gradually opens up to Eames more and more and more.

“Arthur,” Tessa says one afternoon when they are all seated in the back corner of the library. She and Arthur have grown extremely close for reasons that mystify Eames but for which he will be eternally grateful. “Arthur, do you know anything about Dominic Cobb?”

Eames scoffs at Tess’ unwavering obsession with Dominic and ignores her withering glare.

“Dominic?” Arthur repeats. He glances down at his book, then shuts it. Memorizing the page number, Eames knows. Bookmarks are for amateurs. “I don’t really know many people, Tessa.”

“So that’s a no, then?” she says with a pout.

Arthur smiles. “He sits behind me in one of my classes. Talks about dreams a lot to Yusuf.”

“Dreams?” Eames asks. “Well do tell, Arthur, what kind of dreams does Cobb have?”

Arthur laughs, and Eames’ heart stutter-stops because _Christ,_ Eames has only heard Arthur’s carefree, joyous laugh a few times in the past months, and he doubts he will ever take it for granted. “No, Eames,” Arthur says. He sounds affectionate, or maybe that’s just Eames projecting. “He talks about, like, doing stuff in dreams.”

“This sounds dirtier every minute,” Eames says.

Tessa whacks his arm. Arthur sighs heavily and frowns, but Eames spots the hint of a curve at the corner of his mouth.

“He thinks that it’s possible to steal things from other people’s dreams,” Arthur says. “And to put different things in.”

Eames turns to Tessa. “So that’s a definite no,” he tells her. “I’m not letting you date a nutcase.”

“Who said anything about dating?” Tessa scowls. “I’m just curious.”

Arthur chuckles softly as he picks up his book again.

“The last time you were ‘just curious’ about something, you nearly blew up the kitchen.”

“Well how was I supposed to know that food grease was flammable?”

Arthur leans back in his chair, cradling his book in his hands, and his feet knock against Eames’ under the table. Eames can’t help but wonder whether or not it was accidental.

“And besides,” Tessa continues, “you have done so many worse things than almost blow up the kitchen.”

Arthur peeks up from his book. “He has?”

“Oh, nothing for you to worry about,” Eames says as he reaches out and gently pushes Arthur’s head down in an effort to make him focus on reading again.

Arthur grins and refuses to be distracted. “Tessa?”

“Where to begin?” she asks. “There was the time he almost totalled father’s car by driving it when he was too young to drive and too short to see where he was going. There was the time he tricked me into eating dog food. There was the time he tried to fly by jumping off the roof of our garage. Don’t worry, he landed on mum’s basket of laundry, totally unscathed.”

Eames wonders if he can make himself melt into the floor by sheer force of will alone.

Tessa’s on a roll now. “There was the time he decided to reenact a scene from _The Spiderwick Chronicles_ and tied my hair to my headboard. There was the time he laid a trap for Santa and got our mum’s nightgown caught in the fireplace.”

“Alright, alright, Tessa, I think he gets the idea,” Eames says.

Arthur smiles. “I don’t think I do, Tessa,” he says. “I think I need to hear more.”

“Traitor!” Eames cries, much to the annoyance of the librarian. She glares at him reproachfully from behind her desk. Eames leans across the table, invading Arthur’s personal space. He tries not to read into it too much when Arthur doesn’t move away. “Arthur,” Eames says in a mock whisper, “you’re getting me into all sorts of trouble.”

Arthur pats Eames on the head. “From what it sounds like, that’s nothing new.”

~+~+~

May arrives, and the Seniors are talking endlessly about colleges and prom and graduation and the future. Eames, Tessa, and Arthur watch them enviously.

“Well, we’ll be there this time next year,” Eames offers at lunch one day.

Arthur snorts. “Yeah, and you know what you’ll be doing? Complaining about how it can’t possibly be over already.”

“I will not!”

“You will.” Arthur lowers his book to look Eames in the eye. “I know you.”

~+~+~

Arthur is, of course, right, and their senior year is filled with Eames whining about how time passes _too quickly_ , it just isn’t bloody fair.

Tessa gets a full ride to Princeton (she cried the entire afternoon, and Eames would have minded except, well, if he had gotten that letter from Princeton, he probably would have been crying too).

Eames, to the horror of his parents, enlists in the Army.

Arthur is accepted to practically every school he applies to, and he finally settles on MIT for a double major in chemistry and computer engineering.

At their graduation, as Eames is handed his diploma and moves his tassel and throws his cap in the air, he realizes suddenly, scarily, that their little group is being scattered to the winds. He clutches Arthur close in an enormous hug while everyone is taking photos, and Arthur hugs him back.

“Don’t get shot,” Arthur mutters in Eames’ ear, as parents snap photos and kids call out to each other.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Eames responds. “Don’t make a robot army without letting me help first.”

Arthur chuckles raggedly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to move out of high school! Who wants to linger there anyways? ;-)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> College is nothing like Arthur expects, which is both good and bad. It’s definitely more challenging in high school, and Arthur revels in the novelty of studying and doing homework for literal _hours_ during his first semester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am putting this on all three of my WIPs: I have pretty much planned out all of Unchained Melody and [A Mindful Friend](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6824026), so I plan to update those and [Sensational](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7132283) on a fairly regular, rotating basis. So if I updated Melody, then I'll make sure I updated Friend and Sensational first before coming back to Melody. Deal? Let's see if I can tie up some of these loose ends!

College is nothing like Arthur expects, which is both good and bad. It’s definitely more challenging in high school, and Arthur revels in the novelty of studying and doing homework for literal _hours_ during his first semester.

He is in five classes, three of which are about Chemistry. Then Calculus I and an easy-A filler-elective class. Calc is fun--the teacher is definitely better than his high school one--and one of his three Chem classes is just a gut course.

But his other two Chem classes actually make Arthur _work_. He studies ferociously, ever-cognisant of the GPA he needs to maintain for his scholarship. It’s fantastic.

He texts Tessa almost daily. It’s usually inane conversation, but it’s comforting to have a familiar voice, even if it’s only through text.

 _Honest to God, Arthur,_ she writes him the first day of school, _my roommate looks just like Audrey Hepburn!!!!_

 _Best plan for killing roommate without it looking suspicious?_ Arthur responds. _A. Suffocate him; B. Throw him out window; C. Steal all of his coffee; D. Overtly threaten his life if he doesn't learn how to SHUT UP_

Tessa writes back: _C, definitely :DDDDDDD_

He also writes to Eames at boot camp. Arthur finds it frankly ridiculous that soldiers still have to write _letters,_ but he starts to look forward to that crumpled piece of paper covered in a very Eamesian combination of chicken scratch and cursive in his mail every month or two.

 _Arthur,_ the first one read, _How’s college life? Have you killed your roommate yet? (No, I haven’t talked to Tessa, I just know you very well.) I personally would suggest finding other friends/study-buddies that you can crash with when he’s being particularly obnoxious, but if you forego the socializing and just decide to go through with it, know that I am here for you. Not that I would be much help, but I can exist as your beacon of moral support, or something like that._

_Boot camp isn’t as bad as people say. Everyone yells at you, but I’ve gotten used to that quickly. Other than the raised volume of all communications, it’s actually pretty straightforward: make your bed right, eat fast, don’t die, and never ask questions. It’s that last bit I’m having the most trouble with, to be honest._

_I promise I’ll remember the third one._

_I miss you and Tess. Hope you two haven’t gone off and turned into famous mad scientists while I’ve been gone. Would hate to be missing out on all those photo shoots._

_Would love to hear from you if you can manage to take a break from MIT._

_Love Eames._

Arthur is confused by the “Love,” but he doesn’t dwell on it. He writes his response that night.

~+~+~

Winter break arrives much faster than Arthur expected, and he and Tessa agree to meet up for a reunion. They rent a hotel room in New York and live on the edge, as Tessa eagerly puts it. They watch shitty movies and eat heart-attack-inducing popcorn and laugh and try to ignore that Eames-sized hole in their days.

“When did he even get deployed?” Tessa whispers that night while they’re cuddled against each other on the lumpy couch.

“Right after he finished boot camp,” Arthur says. “Like, _right_ after.”

Tessa squints at him. “How do you know?”

“He told me in his letter.”

Tessa sits up, and the blanket covering them falls to the floor. “How many times has he written to you?” she asks.

Arthur shrugs. “I don’t know, once a month? Not a lot.”

Tessa collapses on Arthur’s chest with a sigh. Arthur reaches down and pulls the blanket back over them. “You know,” Tessa says, “I got one letter from him. One. And all it said was that he was officially overseas and would hopefully see us soonish.”

Arthur thinks that Tessa thinks there’s something significant in that statement, but he can’t be bothered to decipher it.

“You can read mine if you want,” he offers. “I have them with me.”

Tessa looks at him softly and rests her head on his chest. “No,” she whispers, “it’s fine. You keep them for yourself.”

Arthur hums and closes his eyes, enjoying the warmth and the softness of the blanket surrounding him. He idly rubs Tessa’s back.

“So,” Tessa says a few moments later, “I think I found a boyfriend.”

“Yeah?” Arthur says, eyes still closed. “Is he as crazy as Dominic was?”

Tessa laughs, and they talk late into the night.

~+~+~

During Arthur’s Sophomore Year, his Organic Chemistry professor pulls him aside and asks if he’d be interested in some research on the side, like an internship but top-secret. Arthur says yes.

Two months later, he’s the best chemist at MIT for the development of a new, cutting-edge drug called “Somnacin” that is being sold, hush-hush, to the army.

Arthur’s professor refuses to give him any details at first, but Arthur figures them out for himself. It’s a drug that speeds up brain functions while promoting deep sleep at the same time. It’s not too hard to connect the rest of the dots.

During his Junior Year, he starts idly playing with the very rudimentary tools they use to inject their subjects, and by February, he’s built a more efficient device to deliver the Somnacin to multiple people at once. By his Senior Year, he’s fine-tuned it so that users can customize the exact amount of time they want to go under, to the minute. He is the first to calculate the ratio of waking time to dream time.

His Senior Thesis is about sleep and dreams and its revelations about the human pysche.

 _I’m turning into Dominic,_ Arthur texts Tessa one afternoon.

 _Why?_ she writes back.

_Sorry. Top-Secret Stuff. Will tell you later when allowed._

_:((((((((_

~+~+~

He graduates sigma cum laude and goes straight into the field, using connections from his professor. One month in, his job’s extractor is none other than Dominic Cobb.

 _Guess who I saw?_ he texts Tessa.

_Who?_

_Your Dominic_

_WHAT?_

_Yeah. Funny, right_

They work together well, and Dom asks Arthur to be point when their original member walks out.

After that, Arthur sets aside Chemistry and works on becoming the best fucking point-man in the business.

~+~+~

Sometimes, at night, when he’s sick of playing with his PASIV and researching the marks, he lies back on his bed and thinks about Eames, hopes he’s doing alright. He hasn’t gotten a letter in months, and it’s fine, it’s not like Arthur is taking it personally or is feeling bereft or anything juvenile like that, it’s just… he misses talking to Eames. Misses having someone to just be silly with. Tessa is amazing, but it’s not quite the same. And it’s not like Arthur can really tell Tessa anything these days.

His brain reminds him that he wouldn’t be able to tell Eames anything, either, but Arthur shushes it. Semantics.

~+~+~

“Hey, Arthur!” Dom calls across the warehouse one afternoon.

“What?”

“You ever heard of a Forger?”

Arthur looks up from his papers. “I assume you don’t mean the usual kind.”

Dom shrugs. “Rumors are trickling in about people who can change their appearance in a dream, look like anyone else.”

Arthur smirks. “That’s right out of X-Men, come on.”

Dom laughs generously. “Well, I just got a reference from an old friend who says there’s a great Forger in town. Want to see what he can do?”

“Why not?” Arthur says, leaning back in his chair. “Give me his name so I can research his background first.”

“I knew you’d say that,” Dom says, waving a manila envelope in the air. He stands and deposits it on Arthur’s desk. “Go to town.”

Arthur opens the envelope and freezes. “What the actual fuck,” he breathes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The army isn’t that bad, once Eames gets used to everyone screaming at him.

The army isn’t that bad, once Eames gets used to everyone screaming at him. He writes Arthur a letter every night, although he only sends a few.

He keeps the letters Arthur sends tucked inside his uniform, always. They fray, and the ink fades, but it’s fine. Eames has memorized them all by then.

Every few months, a shipment arrives with Top Secret Things, but the soldiers gossip, and Eames discovers that the Top Secret Things are from MIT.

Just another thing to remind him of Arthur.

 _Darling,_ he writes that night, _we got another delivery from MIT today. Are you sending me secret gifts that I should know about? Do I need to go investigate?_

He doesn’t send that one.

After he graduates from Basic, his CO pulls him aside. “I got a job for you,” he says. “Think you might be interested.”

Next thing he knows, he’s a member of the Top Secret Project Somnacin, which uses the Top Secret Things sent by MIT.

 _Darling,_ he writes, _I’m sleeping for a living, with this top-notch drug called Somnacin. Can you make it? I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re the one who invented it._

He doesn’t send that one, either.

He writes to Tessa, once, just before he’s supposed to fall off the grid for his first mission under Project Somnacin. _Overseas now, love, will write when I can. Love you. Miss you. Hope to see you soon._

~+~+~

Dreamsharing is horribly boring, Eames decides after months of training. It’s the same thing every day. Sleep, fight, die, repeat. At least the army got better injection systems, something they call a PASIV, apparently made by some brilliant MIT student. (Eames can’t help but wonder.)

~+~+~

On one mission, Eames decides he’s sick of following the rules. If he can change things around him in the dreamscape, he thinks, why can’t he change himself?

He pictures himself with longer hair, a thinner nose, bright blue eyes. He doesn’t _feel_ different. He dreams himself a mirror and sighs. Same face as always.

He can hear gunfire in the distance, and he knows he needs to hurry up or go help the others. He closes his eyes again, but his mind drifts. He thinks of Arthur, of his serious, probing eyes, his adorable little frown, his slender body, his dexterous hands. He can almost hear his voice. _“Eames.”_

An explosion makes the ground shake, and Eames’ eyes fly open. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and stares. Arthur’s staring back at him.

~+~+~

He gets a promotion for his trick. Eames doesn’t really know why, but he isn’t about to complain. It’s a nice ceremony, and afterwards, his officers ask him to teach other soldiers how to change themselves. They call it something horribly dry and dull that Eames can never remember. Eames thinks of it as forging.

The problem is, not a lot of other soldiers can pick it up. They can’t picture it like Eames does, or they can’t follow what Eames is describing, or they can’t bring themselves to care.

Eames is the only one in the army who can forge. It makes him, suddenly, a very important person.

~+~+~

The man is weak and slimy, everything that Arthur isn’t. But he’s persistent, and Eames is homesick, and so they find a not-so-secluded area in the back of the barracks, and Eames can’t help but imagine that it’s Arthur’s hands on him, Arthur’s mouth.

And when they get caught, and dishonorably discharged, and the man spouts profanities at Eames and claims he’s no queer, Eames can’t even bring himself to feel guilty.

He is allowed to get his things from his room, and he grabs a PASIV on his way out the door, the very first one the army got from MIT that no one uses anymore. Arthur’s letters are tucked under the folds of his uniform, resting against his chest. He doesn’t need anything else.

~+~+~

It isn’t that difficult to find the underground network of dreamsharers. It’s fairly small, but larger than Eames had expected. He gets a reputation as an excellent forger, both inside and outside the dream.

No one else can do what he can, they say. If you have a hard job, go to Eames, they say.

A few months later, he gets a call from a guy who introduces himself as Dom Cobb. Eames thinks suddenly of Tessa and her crush on Dominic in high school.

“A friend recommended you,” Cobb says. “We’d love to see what you can do.”

“We?” Eames asks.

“Me and my point.”

Eames shrugs. He has nothing better to do.

“I’ll get there soon as I can.”

~+~+~

When he walks into the warehouse, there’s only one man there, his back to Eames. The man is bent over a PASIV, and Eames unabashedly stares at the fit of his trousers. There’s something about this man, maybe the way he carries himself, or the way he is so focused on the task at hand, or the slope of his back that makes Eames think of--

The man straightens and turns around. “Eames,” he says, then stops.

Eames stares. _“Arthur?”_


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Arthur hears the footfalls behind him and turns around, he isn’t surprised at all to see Eames’ face, even though it’s filled out and lined with weariness that really shouldn’t be there, and Arthur opens his mouth and says something that is neither smart nor witty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a slightly longer-than-usual chapter to make up for the longer-than-usual break between updates. Hope you enjoy!

Arthur thinks he’ll be prepared when Eames walks into the warehouse. He’s been thinking it through all week---Eames will enter, shocked, and Arthur will smile and say something smart and witty like, well, something smart and witty, and Eames will probably grin broadly and shout ridiculous things like, “Oh, Arthur, I don’t know how I survived without you,” and everything will go on from there.

So when Arthur hears the footfalls behind him and turns around, he isn’t surprised at all to see Eames’ face, even though it’s filled out and lined with weariness that really shouldn’t be there, and Arthur opens his mouth and says something that is neither smart nor witty.

“Eames,” he says.

“Arthur?” 

Eames is staring. Arthur might be staring back. This isn’t going according to plan.

“Hi,” Arthur offers.

Eames is still staring. “Is it really you?”

Arthur blinks. “Yes?”

And then Eames is striding across the room, and Arthur can’t really tell if Eames is happy or mad of horribly confused, and then he’s pulling Arthur into the tightest hug imaginable, and this is good, this is fine, this is going according to Arthur’s little plan, and Eames is really warm, and he’s rubbing his cheek against Arthur’s, and there is a slight hint of stubble there, just enough to scrape against Arthur’s skin, and then Eames is whispering in Arthur’s ear, the tickle of his breath sending shivers down Arthur’s spine.

“Oh, darling, how I’ve missed you.”

The darling thing is new, but Arthur hasn’t had a good hug in _ages,_ and Eames is really warm, and it’s _Eames,_ and so Arthur hugs him back and smiles and says, “Me too.”

~+~+~

Dom doesn’t remember Eames from high school, which is really no surprise considering he’s never recognized _Arthur_ from school either. Eames sends Arthur ridiculous looks when Dom’s not looking, especially if Dom references something from “his high school years” that they both heard about or even witnessed.

It’s fun working with Eames. It’s fun just being with Eames again.

~+~+~

When they’re discussing going under, Eames pulls out a battered PASIV in a silver briefcase. “Would this work for you lot?” he asks.

Arthur stares at it.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Cobb says, “Arthur makes his own. We’ve got one all ready for us.”

Eames raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

Arthur pulls him aside on their way across the room. “Where did you get that?” he asks.

“Nicked it,” Eames says with a smirk.

“From who?”

“The army. Figured they owed me.”

Arthur stares at the PASIV. “I built that,” he says, and reaches out to run his fingers over its rough edges. “It’s the first one I built.”

“Is it?” Eames’ eyes are bright. “What are the chances.” He gently caresses it too, and his fingers collide with Arthur’s over the tangled wires and sloppy soldering. “This is proof,” Eames says, “that we’re always going to be together in some way.”

Arthur laughs, staring at the small numbers he had engraved in its center to mark the date of his first invention. “You’re such a dork, Eames,” he says.

Eames doesn’t respond. Arthur looks up at him. “Something wrong?” he asks.

Something clears from Eames’ eyes before Arthur fully realized it was there, “No,” he says with a smile.

“You both ready?” Cobb calls, cutting in. Arthur had forgotten he was in the room.

“Sure thing!” Eames grins.

Once they’re all under and standing in Arthur’s default test dream, a simple park with benches and rickety swings, Eames smirks, winks at Arthur, then pulls out a mirror. He stares into it for a moment, and one minute he’s Eames, then Arthur blinks, and the next minute, Eames has disappeared and Tessa stands in his place. She--he?--drapes an arm over Arthur’s shoulders.

“Oh, Arthur,” Eames says in a perfect copy of Tessa’s voice, “how handsome you are.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and gently pushes Eames away. “What else can you do?”

Eames rolls his eyes and steps back. He takes out the mirror again and soon has changed into a sunburnt farmer with a comfortable Southern twang.

Dom is awestruck, and he begs Eames to do more and more, and Arthur smiles as he watches Eames move through countless bodies and personas before their time is out.

“That was incredible,” Dom says the moment they’re all awake. “Amazing. You can become anyone?”

Eames shrugs casually. Arthur recognizes a hint of the movement from Eames’ high-school-era embarrassed shrugs. “It takes a lot,” Eames admits. “I need to know the person inside and out as well as possible. But yeah, basically.”

Cobb stands and paces around the warehouse. “I have the perfect idea,” he says.

~+~+~

They finish the job without any problems, and Eames is absolutely brilliant, of course, and Arthur can’t believe he’s managed to find Eames again. After the money’s been exchanged and the coast is deemed clear, Arthur drags Eames onto a plane so they can visit Tessa together.

“You can’t be in the same country as your sister and not say hello,” he argues after they’re in the air.

Eames grins lopsidedly. “I most decidedly can, Arthur darling, and have in fact been doing so for months.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe you.”

“Seemed easier than coming up with a lie about my field of employment.”

“Just say you work for the government, top secret, blah blah blah,” Arthur says. “That’s what I tell her.”

“ ‘Blah blah blah’?” Eames smirks. “Yes, that sounds very intimidating.”

Arthur laughs. “Shut up,” he says.

Eames pushes up the armrest between them and leans into Arthur’s side.

“Excuse you,” Arthur says.

“You got the window seat,” Eames replies. “It’s only fair that I get to look out of it too.”

Arthur sighs and leans back in his seat, determined to catch some sleep before they land in a few hours. An elbow digs into his side, and he cracks open an eye.

“Excuse you,” he says again.

“Sorry, darling,” Eames says, shifting around. “Just trying to get settled.”

Arthur closes his eyes again and doesn’t wake up until the pilot is announcing their imminent landing. He glances over at Eames, leaning against his side, a soft mass that kept Arthur warmer than any cheap airplane blanket would have, his head lolling against Arthur’s shoulder.

“Eames,” Arthur says. He reaches out his free arm to lightly jostle him. “Eames, come on.”

Eames blinks open his eyes. “Hmmph?” he mutters.

“We’re landing soon,” Arthur says.

“Hmmph,” Eames responds. He shuts his eyes again and burrows his head against Arthur’s shoulder. “Wake me when we’ve actually landed,” he says.

~+~+~

Tessa is waiting for them outside the terminal, and she comes running the instant she sees them. She hugs Arthur first, and proceeds to yell at Eames over Arthur’s shoulder.

“You don’t call, you don’t write!”

“Tess, I’m sorry, but things were really hectic, and--”

“And you still managed to find time to write Arthur almost every night.”

There’s a pause, and Arthur thinks they’re probably exchanging weighted looks, but he can’t know for sure because Tessa is still hugging him very tightly.

“Tessa,” he says after a moment, because his lungs need oxygen.

“Sorry,” she says and lets go. “I just...I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” Arthur smiles.

“Oi!” Eames says. “I don’t get a hug?”

Tessa raises her nose in the air. “Hugging rights expire after two months without correspondence.”

Eames shakes his head and engulfs Tessa in his arms. “Well I’m renewing them,” he says into her hair.

“Okay,” she says, and hugs him close.

~+~+~

They all catch up with each other, even though Tessa is the only one out of all three of them who is telling the truth about her job, and Eames and Arthur mostly mumble about confidentiality and rules and regulations. It’s almost like high school again--they’re all together, but they’re older and more...just more than what they were. Arthur loves it and hates it, and he wishes they could do this without the secrecy and the PASIV resting next to his feet in its silver briefcase because he doesn’t dare let it out of his sight.

What are the chances, he thinks, that Eames would grab this one?

“Arthur?” Tessa waves her hand in front of his face. “Are you paying attention?”

Eames chuckles. “Oh, leave him be, Tess. He’s probably thinking about unusual architecture or something equally inspiring.”

Arthur blushes. Apparently, some things never do change.

~+~+~

He and Eames leave Tessa a few days later, both with promises to keep in touch more regularly. The job offers come flying in for Arthur, and he asks every extractor, “Have you ever met a Forger?”

Soon, Eames has as big a reputation as Arthur’s, and they’re working together on nearly every job they take. It’s wonderfully perfect, and Arthur falls into a rhythm with Eames, relearns his habits and observes new ones--mainly his more touchy-feely behavior around Arthur. (Because it’s Eames, Arthur doesn’t really mind.)

Everything is just perfect for the next couple of years, and Arthur thinks he could get used to this kind of life.

And then, Eames sends it all crashing down.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames knew better. He really did. He really _does._ It’s just that he never seems to know anything when Arthur’s involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: ANGST AHEAD. (Also, alcohol consumption. Because Angst.)

Eames knew better. He really did. He really _does._ It’s just that he never seems to know anything when Arthur’s involved.

He’s loved Arthur since high school. He knows it, Tessa knows it. But he also knows that, as much as Arthur enjoys his company, he doesn’t thinks of Eames that way. When he says Eames in that tone, it’s softened with fondness, but not love. When he rolls his eyes at Eames, it’s out of familiarity with Eames’ antics, not a besotted movement.

Eames knows all of this. It’s just.

~+~+~

Tessa pulled him aside while he and Arthur were packing to leave after their brief reunion-visit.

“Arthur,” she said, closing the door softly behind her.

Eames sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

“Eames.” Tessa leaned against the door and crossed her arms. “Are you ever going to tell him?”

“What happened…” Eames’ throat was dry. He cleared it roughly. “What happened to ‘be careful with him, he’s fragile’?”

Tessa scoffed. “Of course you remember that.” She shook her head. “I’m starting to think you’re the fragile one, Thomas.”

Eames stared at her and forced a smile on his face. He grunted noncommittally. “Was that all?”

Tessa stepped forward and pulled him into a tight hug. “Don’t get hurt,” she whispered in his ear.

~+~+~

And he doesn’t get hurt for years. He and Arthur work side by side more often than not, and they quickly gain a reputation as the best duo in dreamshare. They make an obscene amount of money, and they sneak across borders together, side by side.

It’s wonderful, perfect, idyllic. Eames pines after Arthur shamelessly, privately, and Arthur putters along, focused on work and success and staying alive.

It works for them. Until it doesn’t.

~+~+~

They’re on this job in New Orleans. The chemist is this dirty, scrawny, baby-faced kid who looks like he can barely spell his own name but supposedly makes the best custom blends in the country. Eames doesn’t know shit about his Somnacin skills, but he does know three things about this kid by the end of their first day.

The kid is infatuated with Arthur.

Arthur is, as he always is, oblivious.

And Eames is, as he never is, furious.

He clenches his fists as he watches the kid skitter to Arthur’s side the moment Arthur calls his name. He grinds his teeth as he spots the kid’s broad, rotten-toothed smile. He starts to relax when he sees Arthur’s flickering expression of distaste, and then he nearly chokes when he sees that smile spread on Arthur’s face when he wakes from his first test run.

He snaps pencils as Arthur talks animatedly with the kid.

He gouges holes in paper with his pen as Arthur laughs gleefully with the kid.

He kicks his desk as Arthur bends over to inspect the kid’s list of ingredients, and the kid stares hungrily.

He sucks in a breath and mentally runs through every curse word he knows as his toes throb and Arthur actually accepts the kid’s goddamn invitation to lunch.

Their extractor watches him nervously.

Yeah. This whole pining thing? Doesn’t work anymore.

~+~+~

The job is completed without a hitch, of course. The kid’s Somnacin blend is incredibly balanced and helpful, _of course._

They’re packing and getting ready to scatter when the kid sidles over to Arthur, who is absently organizing Eames’ papers and packing them away, his own luggage neatly stacked in the corner of the room. The kid clears his throat. Eames can see, from his vantage point on Arthur’s other side, the kid’s acne.

“So, Arthur,” the kids says. “You want to go out for a bite to eat? Cup of coffee?”

Arthur scoffs and glances at Eames, holding up a piece of paper filled with Arthur’s handwriting, and enhanced with Eames’ artistic doodle of his hands around a scrawny, headless neck.

“Arthur?” the kid says again.

“We scatter,” Arthur says, not even bothering to look at the kid. He’s in sorting mode right now, and if the kid keeps talking, he’ll get on Arthur’s nerves for interrupting.

Eames sends a fervent prayer to God that the kid keeps talking.

“Oh, yeah,” the kid says. “Maybe another time.”

Arthur grunts and shoves a stack of papers into Eames’ hands. “Trash.”

“Darling!” Eames plucks his artistic doodle from the top of the stack.

“Trash,” Arthur repeats.

The kid flips Eames the bird behind Arthur’s back and petulantly stomps away.

Arthur waits for the others to leave, because that’s what he does. Eames stands quietly at Arthur’s side, because that’s what _he_ does. Among other things.

When the warehouse is quiet, and there isn’t a single sign that they were ever there, Arthur turns to Eames with a small smile. “Want to go for a drink?” he asks.

Eames arches a brow. “Thought we were supposed to scatter?”

Arthur shrugs. “After drinks, then.”

Eames smiles. “Why not.”

~+~+~

It’s a clean-cut, classy bar, of course, and they sit in a booth in the back where they can each watch an exit. They talk shop, and laugh over stupid things, and the stretch out in their seats, and Arthur keeps buying them more rounds, and Eames carefully, casually, arranges his feet so that they’re pressed against Arthur’s. He’s tired, he’s riding the high of a job well done, and Arthur’s sitting across from him. He knows better. But he never really knows anything when Arthur’s involved.

“You looked like you were passing a kidney stone during this job, Eames.” Arthur grins, running a finger around the rim of his glass.

Eames rolls his eyes. “Tha’ fucker wouldn’t leave you ‘lone.”

“What fucker?”

“Y’know.” Eames waves a hand in the air. “The fucker.”

Arthur laughs. “Right.”

“Wouldn’t leave you ‘lone.” Eames leans forward for emphasis. His balance is a bit skewed, but he catches himself on his forearms before he sprawls completely across the table. He finds Arthur’s eyes again. He can always find Arthur. “Kept hoverin’ around you, starin’ at you.” He shakes his head wobbily. “Fucker touched you even. Fucker.”

Arthur squints at him, and he looks silly like that, so Eames squints back and giggles.

“Are you talking about Gerry?” Arthur asks. Eames can barely hear him over the hum of the other patrons in the bar.

“Yeah,” he slurs. “Fucker. Wouldn’t just fuckin’ go away. He doesn’t get you like tha’.”

Arthur starts to straighten in his seat, but Eames grabs his hands and pulls him back down.

“You know?” he asks, squeezing Arthur’s hands in his. God, callouses were never this hot to him before. “He...You...You’re on’y like tha’ with me.” He runs his fingers over the tops of Arthur’s hands. The skin is soft and smooth, hiding the callouses on the tips. Eames could touch Arthur’s hands all day. “Oh, Arthur,” he breathes, vaguely watching their twined hands. “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. My darling Arthur.”

He feels Arthur stiffen, and he knows these signs, he knows everything, but he knows nothing when Arthur’s involved.

He lets his head drop onto the table, and he presses his lips to the back of Arthur’s hand. “Love you,” he says. “Love you so bloody much.”

“Eames.”

“Always have done. Tess thinks I’m a fool. She doesn’t get it.”

“Eames.”

He sighs happily and nuzzles Arthur’s hand with his nose. “I’d follow you to th’ ends of th’ Earth,” he confides.

 _“Eames.”_ Arthur wrenches his hands out of Eames’ grasp and slides out of the booth.

Eames watches him fuzzily. “Wha?”

Arthur walks over and stands at Eames’ side, and Eames wraps an arm around Arthur’s waist. “Darling,” he mumbles, pressing his face against Arthur’s stomach.

“Eames, no. Stop it.” Strong hands forcibly shove Eames away, to the far end of the booth.

Clarity returns to Eames with a sharp snap. Fuck, he thinks.

“Arthur,” he tries.

“No,” Arthur says. He breathes deeply and straightens his clothes, and Eames watches him helplessly. “I’m going,” Arthur says, “to leave. Don’t.” He stops and swallows thickly. “Don’t come after me.”

“Arthur,” Eames says again.

Arthur picks up his bag, drops some bills on the table, and walks out the door. And Eames watches him helplessly.

~+~+~

Eames goes to Mombassa, to the small apartment he found while hiding from the mob, and fights his hangover from the cheap beer at that dive he found after he got kicked out of the first bar. And the second. 

He drops his bag in the doorway and collapses on his couch with a groan. “Fuck,” he mumbles. It’s the only word he’s really said in the last thirty-six hours.

“Fuck.”

~+~+~

He calls Tessa a week later, when he’s disgusted himself with his own self pity.

“Oh, Thomas,” she says.

He never should have told her.

~+~+~

He seeks out the best casinos, the best places to cheat at, the places that can’t even pick out a shoddy counterfeit. He wins money, loses it, wins it back, spends it on alcohol.

He’s such a fucking mess. And he can’t even bring himself to care.

~+~+~

He runs into Yusuf a few months later and is more or less dragged back into sobriety. He doesn’t even try to interfere as Yusuf empties every bottle in his house down the drain.

It’s fine. He’ll give up the alcohol.

He walks to the casino that afternoon.

~+~+~

“You can rub them together all you want, they’re not going to breed.”

Eames wishes he were dreaming.

“You never know,” he manages to say as he leaves the table and goes to cash in his chips.

Dominic fucking Cobb reaches out and inspects one. “I see your spelling hasn’t improved.”

“Piss off,” Eames says. He means it.

Dominic fucking Cobb doesn’t piss off. He drags Eames into the worst, riskiest, most impossible job, after Eames’ been out of the field since that last job with Arthur, all because he says the keyword.

_Arthur._

~+~+~

He tries to reach out to Arthur, but he hits a brick wall he hasn’t seen since high school. It’s gotten thicker, since, and is covered in barbed wire and electric fences.

Eames despises it.

“Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated, Arthur, thank you.”

He hates Arth--no. He hates himself. He hates himself for being such a fucking idiot.

~+~+~

He manages to pull Arthur aside before they leave for the job.

“Arthur,” he says, then stops, unfamiliar with the cold, closed faced in front of him.

“What, Eames?” Arthur says.

“We need to talk,” he manages to say. He thinks he sounds normal. He hopes.

Arthur sighs. “After the job,” he says and he walks away.

Eames watches him helplessly.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur should have seen this coming. He’s a details guy—it’s his job for Christ’s sake—and he absolutely, undeniably should have seen the signs that Eames was…well, the way he is. But Arthur didn’t, and he doesn’t know why. And that bothers him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long!! School's starting up, and everything's getting hectic. Sorry in advance for the angst! *offers tissues*

Arthur should have seen this coming. He’s a details guy—it’s his job for Christ’s sake—and he absolutely, undeniably should have seen the signs that Eames was…well, the way he is. But Arthur didn’t, and he doesn’t know why. And that bothers him.

It bothers him so much that he can’t quite manage to act normally around Eames while they’re preparing for the Inception job. It takes a lot for him to open up to someone, and for years Eames and Tessa were those special someones, but Eames’ drunken confession sent all of Arthur’s defenses back up at maximum power.

And Arthur can almost sense the prickly walls protecting him, and he knows, deep down, that Eames is not someone he needs to be protected from, but the two things he hates most in life are the unexpected and the uncontrollable, and Eames was, on that night, both. And Arthur needs to work through that, analyze it from every angle, before he can move on.

So when Eames tries to reach out to Arthur, he doesn’t engage. Eames teases and prods and smirks and laughs, and Arthur curls up in his shell and glares and wishes he could turn himself invisible. And when Eames finally transitions from good-natured jokes to hurt, confused anger, Arthur sighs and resigns himself to losing Eames as a friend.

Because really, how long can Eames be expected to put up with Arthur like this?

~+~+~

They’re under, and Arthur is driving, and Eames is trapped in the backseat, and they’re being shot at, and _God,_ Arthur did not sign up for this shit, and he keeps hearing Eames’ little cry of alarm from that first bullet, and Arthur is definitely _not_ panicking over how Eames could be fucking bleeding out in his backseat with Arthur none-the-wiser, and Arthur is definitely _not_ shooting Fischer’s projections more aggressively than usual for having possibly injured or, shit, _killed_ Eames, and then they’re free and Arthur slams the gas, and he shouts for Eames and waits for that painful, agonizing breath, then—

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.”

He’s okay. They’re okay. Everything’s okay.

Saito’s not okay.

~+~+~

Dom is yelling at him. Dominic fucking Cobb, the asshole who accepted this fucking _impossible_ job in the first place, the idiot who Arthur’s been chasing across the world because he wasn’t brave enough to risk going to court over the death of his beautiful, lovely wife. The damn lunatic who—

Eames interrupts. Eames takes the attention off Arthur like he’s been doing since they met, and Arthur could be grateful except the truth comes out then, and Arthur’s too busy being furious and homicidal to feel thankful.

Fucking Cobb.

~+~+~

“You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger darling,” Eames tells him.

But he is afraid to dream a little bigger. He’s terrified to dream a little bigger, to wish for something that will topple the carefully arranged walls he’s built, to ask for something that will most likely push Eames far, far away once and for all.

He’s petrified of losing, of missing Eames, so damn scared he can barely see straight, and it’s ridiculous, it’s absolutely ridiculous that he’s gotten so screwed up just because of _Eames._

~+~+~

He watches Eames walk by as the shapely blonde, tells Ariadne to give him a kiss. It’s not like he expected kisses to be. He can’t help but wonder if it would have been different with somebody else.

“They’re still looking at us,” Ariadne says.

“Well, it was worth a shot,” he says.

~+~+~

“Security’s gonna run you down hard.” Eames’ voice is like silk.

Arthur tries to hide that his fingers are trembling, concentrates on carefully inserting the cannula into Eames’ vein, the delicate skin that covers it so soft beneath his touch. “And I will lead them on a merry chase,” he says.

Eames grins broadly, and Arthur’s mouth instinctively quirks at the sight. This is better, this mostly-familiar rhythm between them. Almost like before.

“Just be back before the kick.”

Arthur lowers Eames’ hand across his waist and hopes this isn’t the last time he sees him. “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”

~+~+~

Security runs him down hard, and he dreams a lot bigger. He curls up in the corner of the elevator, clutching the trigger to his chest, and stares at Eames’ peaceful face. He wishes Eames were here to crack a joke and call him darling and make him smile.

He rocks slightly, trying to estimate when to push the button. Eames would probably be joking about defying gravity right now. Arthur smiles just thinking about it.

He presses the button, feels the elevator rock. He catches a glimpse of Eames’ eyes opening just as he is kicked up to the next level.

~+~+~

Eames waits for him at the baggage claim. Eames follows him to the hotel, then to the room, that Arthur booked. Eames sits in an armchair and watches Arthur intently.

“Eames,” Arthur says. He clears his throat.

“Look, Arthur, I’m sorry about what happened—”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine. “I just… We need to talk about it.”

“Yes. Absolutely.” Eames shifts in his chair.

Arthur folds his hands together so he won’t fidget. “I…Eames, I don’t…think of you. Like that.”

Eames hesitates, then nods. “Right. I see. Uhm. Arthur—”

“I want to still be friends with you, though.” That comes out a bit more desperately than he had planned. “I just…don’t want to lose you.”

“Of course, Arthur. I would never.” Eames smiles, but Arthur’s heart falls when he sees the flat, resigned sadness in his eyes.

~+~+~

He arrives outside Tessa’s door with a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine. Tessa takes one look at him and drags him inside.

“Tell me everything,” she demands, pushing him down onto the couch.

There’s some horrendous horror film playing on her TV. Arthur glances over at the man sitting on his right. “Hello,” he says.

The man stares. “Tess? Who’s this?”

“This is Arthur,” Tessa says, as if that explains everything. She sprawls out on top of Arthur, and Arthur pulls a blanket over both of them.

“Tessa,” the man says.

“Oh, shush,” she says. “I am completely devoted to you. And besides, Arthur’s gay as they come.”

Arthur frowns but doesn’t contradict her.

“Tell me everything,” Tessa says to him again.

Arthur glances at the man. “Um,” he says.

“Go home,” Tessa says to the man.

“What?”

“I’ll call you.”

The man glares hatefully at Arthur as he lets himself out. Arthur can’t quite bring himself to care. “I lost Eames,” he tells Tessa.

She snuggles into his side. “Everything,” she says.

So Arthur tells her everything. He tells her about Project Somnacin, and dreamsharing, and getting reunited with Eames. He gets stuck on Eames’ drunken confession.

“God, Tessa, you should’ve seen his face. It was just… He told me he’d loved me forever, and he’d follow me to the ends of the Earth.”

Tessa idly rubs a hand in circles on his chest. “What did you do?”

Arthur sighs. “I left. I walked out on him. Didn’t see or hear from him again until this last job.”

“So why have you lost him?”

Arthur closes his eyes. “We talked after the job. And I told him that I wanted us to still be friends.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Tessa says. “Why?”

“Because, I don’t think of him that way.”

Tessa frowns at him.

“What?” Arthur shifts. “I don’t think of _anyone_ that way. You and Eames are the closest friends I’ve got, and…”

“And you don’t like change,” Tessa finishes. She sighs. “And of course, Eames said you would always be friends when we both know he was dying on the inside.”

Arthur nods.

“Oh, Arthur,” she says again.

Arthur thinks that sums everything up fairly accurately.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s strange, working as “friends.” Arthur can almost hear every _darling_ that Eames bites back, can practically feel every touch that Eames pulls away. 
> 
> It is torturous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone reading this should send a million, trillion, bajillion thanks and kudos and love to Flosculatory for, first and most importantly, saving you all from the cruel, horrible, tragic ending I had initially planned for this fic and for, secondly and no less importantly, being the best-est friend and partner in fic-writing crime!!! <3

It’s strange, working as “friends.” Arthur can almost hear every _darling_ that Eames bites back, can practically feel every touch that Eames pulls away. 

It is torturous.

~+~+~

“Darl—” Eames cuts himself off with a frustrated huff. “Arthur. Do you have that file on the mark’s family?”

Arthur stands and walks across the warehouse, trying not to obsess over whether or not the others are watching them.

“Thanks,” Eames mutters.

Their hands brush as he reaches for the manila folder, and Arthur can’t quite suppress the surprised jolt that skids through his body. Eames presses his lips together and looks away. “I’ll read through this,” he says.

Arthur wants to say something, but all his words are stuck in his throat, so he just nods and walks back to his desk.

“D—” Eames starts, a few hours later. “Daryl, right?”

“Yeah,” their new team member says. “Thanks for not calling me Derek.”

They chuckle comfortably. Arthur forces his spine to relax and pulls his hand away from the file he had instinctively reached for, even as his jaw clenches. It doesn’t mean anything.

~+~+~

They’re under, and the job is running as smoothly as Arthur could possibly wish for. It’s so easy that he’s on edge, just waiting for something to go horribly wrong, because life isn’t this easy, not for him. It never is.

“What’s the matter, sugar?” A buxom blonde with bright red lips presses herself against his side.

Arthur rolls his eyes and pushes her away. “Eames, now is seriously not the time.”

She giggles and purses her lips. “I like a challenge.”

Arthur’s frustration that has been building since the start of the job, since _before_ the start of the job, finally boils over, and mild annoyance turns to anger. “Seriously, Eames, you have work to do. Stop fucking around.”

The blonde is persistent. “But sweetie,” she croons. A perfectly manicured hand strokes down his arm.

In a smooth motion, Arthur draws his gun and presses the barrel to her forehead. “I’m serious, Eames,” he grits out. “Fuck off.”

Every projection in the crowded room suddenly goes silent, and as one, they turn to face Arthur. He looks back at the blonde, who is staring, wide-eyed and somewhat cross-eyed, at the gun pressed against her head.

“Shit,” he mutters as the projections start to swarm. “Fucking _Eames._ ”

~+~+~

When Arthur knocks on Tessa’s door, the man answers. He looks Arthur up and down, sighs heavily, and steps aside.

“Tess! Your gay-as-they-come friend is back!”

“Which one?” she calls from deeper inside the apartment.

The man shrugs at Arthur. “I’ll leave you to it.” His arm brushes against Arthur’s as he walks out the narrow doorway.

“What?” Arthur says to the now-empty room.

“Arthur!” Tessa runs over and pulls him into a tight hug. Arthur feels something inside of him loosen, then unwind, and he lets out the breath he felt like he’d been holding for _months_ as he clutches her close.

“How many gay friends do you have?” he mumbles into Tessa’s shoulder.

She laughs. “Don’t worry, Arthur, you’re one of a kind.”

They move to the couch, and Tessa grabs a large, fluffy blanket out of the closet.

Arthur stares at it. “What is that?”

“It’s a comfort blanket!” She shakes it enticingly, making the horrendously neon-colored fluff jiggle.

“It’s disturbing, Tess. I don’t feel very comforted.”

She rolls her eyes. “Look, they didn’t have it in any other color, okay? Just close your eyes.”

Arthur does, so that he won’t have nightmares about enormous, neon-orange, furry blankets, and he feels a warm softness wrap around him.

“See?” Tessa says. “Comfort blanket.”

“Comfort blanket,” he repeats. “As long as I don’t look at it.”

She giggles and presses herself against his side. “So, what’s wrong?”

He sighs. “Everything.”

“Worst thing first,” Tessa says.

He laughs humorlessly and wraps an arm around her shoulder. “I nearly jeopardized an entire job because I pulled a gun on a projection, thinking it was Eames screwing with me.”

Tessa stares at him.

“Yeah,” he says. “But I _didn’t_ screw up the job, because Eames had already gotten the info we needed, saving the day, as per usual.”

“I could never work in that field,” Tessa says with a laugh.

Arthur manages to smile at her. “And Eames isn’t talking to me. Like, he does, but he doesn’t. It’s stupid stuff, about the job or something, and it’s just _painfully_ stilted, and I just…I miss him, Tess. I miss him when I’m in the same room as him.”

She rubs his back and wraps the comfort blanket tighter around him.

“How do I fix it, Tess? He wants a relationship, he wants…” He laughs, but it feels more like a sob. “He loves me, he said it himself. He’s always loved me. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

Tessa is quiet for a moment. “What exactly is your…like, why don’t you want to be in a relationship with Eames?”

Arthur would stare at her if he weren’t afraid of the comfort blanket blinding him. “Because I’m not…I don’t want to be in a relationship with _anybody,_ I just…” He trails off weakly.

“Why not?” she asks. 

“Because.” He sighs. “A relationship means settling down and, like, marriage and babies, and I mean, duh I’m not going to, like, have a baby myself, but I’m just not sure I want any of that right now. Right?” That came out more desperately than he intended.

Tessa starts rubbing Arthur’s back again. “You know, a relationship doesn’t _have_ to have all of those things.”

Arthur scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

She sighs. “And I think you need to talk to Eames before you jump to the end conclusion like you always do.”

Arthur groans. “Easier said than done, Tess.”

They fall asleep on the couch together, and when Arthur wakes up, without circulation in the arm that Tessa is wrapped around, he says, “Should I talk to Eames?”

“If it’ll keep you off my couch, I would.”

Arthur cranes his neck and spots the man standing on the other side of the couch, dressed in a suit and tie. “Um,” Arthur says. “Hi.”

“Hi,” the man says. “No offense, man, but it just creeps me out to see you guys like that.”

Arthur nods vaguely. “Yeah, no, it’s fine.”

The man smiles slightly. “Talk to Eames. Between you and him, our couch never gets any rest.”

He leaves then, grabbing his coat on the way out.

Tessa stirs sleepily. “Mmph?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, gently running a hand through her hair. “Me too.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forging is more than a skill; it’s an art form, honed through years of sweat, work, effort, dedication, and self-control. Eames has Forged hundreds of people in his life, bankers, butchers, trophy wives, cunning matriarchs, small children, spoiled teenagers, and once, a pigeon.
> 
> But this is the first time he has ever Forged _himself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been quite a journey! When I first started this fic, I honestly had no plan for where it would go. It was just a vague idea that popped into my head, like most of my stories do, and I thought it would be fun to write. I sincerely apologize for the angst and feels. I've been informed that my writing is either crack-y fluff or soul-killing angst, and, well...this fic certainly was not the former!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story since its small, slow birth! I can't tell you how happy it makes me every time someone leaves a comment. It makes my day getting those email notifications! You guys are all the best, most supportive people _ever_ , and I appreciate it so, so much!!
> 
> On a side note, now that I have finished this fic, I can start working on _another_ fic I've been _dying_ to write involving Soulmates*. YAY!
> 
> *If Flos says yes. Yes? Yes, right? Yes.  
> (You know it's bad when your Tumblr-friend-slash-co-author-slash-beta-slash-muse expressly forbids you from writing other things.)

Forging is more than a skill; it’s an art form, honed through years of sweat, work, effort, dedication, and self-control. Eames has Forged hundreds of people in his life, bankers, butchers, trophy wives, cunning matriarchs, small children, spoiled teenagers, and once, a pigeon.

But this is the first time he has ever Forged _himself._

It’s like a cruel game, almost: give the Forged Eames all the qualities that Arthur likes or, at the very least, tolerates, and hide all the rest inside of the Real Eames. It is a bit tricky for Eames to wrap his head around at first, and he slips up during the first few days, forgetting to curtail his chronic _darlings,_ carelessly letting his fingers brush against Arthur’s. But he works out the kinks, finesses his movements, and his Forge is as seamless as any other.

Really, after dealing with dreamshare and Limbo and all the rest of the madness that comes with working with Dom Cobb, this type of Forging should be a walk in the park.

~+~+~

They’re working a job, and it’s a horribly shitty job, the kind of job that leaves permanent, dark smudges under Arthur’s eyes and causes tremors to run through Arthur’s rail-thin body at 10am when his midnight caffeine hit starts to run out, the kind of job that makes Eames wonder if Arthur’s wrist-bones _always_ stick out that much.

The Real Eames would drift over to Arthur’s desk and whisper sweet nothings in Arthur’s ear to try and dispel that visible knot of tension in his shoulders, would gently rub Arthur’s back after everyone else had left and watch Arthur take his first deep breath in days, would coax him out of his seat to bring him to a nearby café and watch him try to stomach an entire serving of food before walking back with him to his desk like a small scrap of metal being pulled inexorably to a large, powerful magnet.

But the Real Eames isn’t what Arthur wants, and the Forged Eames would never do any of those things, would never dare to encroach that barbed-wire sphere of anxiety and stress surrounding Arthur, and so Eames sits at his own desk, acting like he hasn’t a care in the world, as he obsessively flicks his poker chip over his fingers, down, around, and back again, down, around, and back again.

Eames thinks Forgery is a bastardly thing.

~+~+~

He calls Tessa once the job is finished. “This ‘friends’ thing isn’t working out like I thought it would,” he says the moment the call connects.

There is a long pause. “Tessa is occupied,” her boyfriend says. “She’ll be here in a minute.”

“Ah,” Eames says. “Thanks.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, then Eames hears a rustle and murmured voices.

“About time you called me!” Tessa shouts into the phone.

Eames smiles, barely. “I know, I’m sorry.” He sighs. “This whole ‘friends’ thing isn’t working.”

Tessa sighs too, her breath gusting over the speaker. “I know. Arthur was just here the other night.”

Eames feels his heart skip a beat, but he squashes down that weak flare of hope. “What did he tell you?”

Tessa hums thoughtfully. “Well, long story short, I told him he needs to talk to you. Which he does.”

Eames nods absently, chewing his lip. “Talk about what?”

“About you two,” Tessa says as if it’s obvious. “You guys need to figure this out.”

“We did,” Eames says. “Arthur doesn’t want me.”

“He does, Eames.” Tessa sighs again. “He just got scared by the declaration of love. But of course he wants you. He’s wanted you since high school.”

Eames scoffs. “Yeah, sure, but not as a partner, a lover. Just as friends. And I thought I’d be fine with that, I’d just stand in the background, always pining for Arthur and making sure he ate and slept and didn’t work himself into knots every job, but I can’t do it, Tess. I can’t just be a friend to him.” He exhales loudly and tells himself it wasn’t a sob.

Tessa tuts over the phone. “Eames,” she says, then stops. “Just…talk to Arthur. Please.”

So Eames isn’t completely taken aback when Arthur comes over to his desk at the end of their next job and mutters, “Can we talk?” while staring at something clearly fascinating on the floor at his side.

Arthur leads him into the dingy closet across the warehouse and shoves his hands in his pockets. “This isn’t working,” he says.

“I know,” Eames says.

“I miss you,” Arthur blurts out.

Eames stares.

“I miss you and your darlings and your…you just…you…” Arthur sighs angrily and leans back against the wall. “You calm me down,” he mutters, his jaw clenched. “You keep me grounded, you make sure I don’t get lost in my head. And I took you for granted, Eames, I know that now. I took for granted every sandwich you brought me, every time you rubbed my back or read through files with me. And I just…” He stops abruptly and harshly runs a hand over his face.

Eames thinks that maybe he’s in Limbo and none of this is real and that’s why his heart isn’t beating and his lungs aren’t filling with air.

“I miss you,” Arthur says again. “And whatever we are right now as ‘friends’ is nothing close to what we’re supposed to be. I just want things to be like how they were.”

Eames feels his heart skip a beat, like it had with Tessa, but this time he lets that little sliver of hope grow. “What do you want, Arthur?” he asks softly.

Arthur closes his eyes and lets all of his weight rest against the filthy wall behind him. “I want you to be there for me like you always have. I want you to not be afraid to nudge me when it’s time for lunch or run a hand along my back on your way across the room or sit on my desk and rearrange my papers or just call me darling. I want…” He laughs, a flat exhalation of air. “I’m such a selfish bastard. I want all this from you, and what do you get out of it?”

“Everything,” Eames breathes, scared to disturb this surreal equilibrium. “Arthur.”

Arthur shakes his head and finally meets Eames’ eyes. “It’s not fair to you,” he says. “It’s not fair. You…you said…you _love_ me, and I can’t—I can’t _be_ that guy for you, Eames, I can’t settle down and get that white picket fence and a dog, I can’t—”

“Who said anything about a white picket fence?” Eames cuts in. He takes a step towards Arthur and then, when Arthur doesn’t stop him, another and another and another, until they’re close enough to touch, so Eames does. He reaches out slowly and rests his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, feels Arthur tremble and shudder and sigh, and Arthur lets his head drop onto Eames’ chest and, for the first time that Eames has seen since his drunken love confession, he lets himself fully relax and just _breathe._

“Arthur,” Eames murmurs, relishing the feel of it on his tongue. “Arthur, Arthur, darling Arthur. When have I ever once expressed a desire for a white bloody picket fence?”

“You said you love me,” Arthur says, his voice muffled.

“That I do,” Eames says.

“And love means relationship means marriage means white picket fence and dog,” Arthur mumbles.

Eames freezes. “Oh,” he breathes. “No, love, no. Is that what’s gotten you into this state, hm?” He rubs a hand down Arthur’s back. “No, darling, love doesn’t have to be some monumental change of life.”

Arthur shifts against Eames, raises his own hands and coils them around Eames’ back.

“It can just mean that I want you in my life, for the rest of my life,” Eames says, closing his eyes and breathing in Arthur’s familiar scent. “It can just mean that I don’t want to lose you.” He daringly presses a soft kiss to Arthur’s temple. “I don’t ever want to lose you, Arthur. I love you, I love you with everything I have, but that doesn’t mean settling down and completely rewriting our lives.”

Eames steps away slightly, just far enough to see Arthur’s face, and he smiles gently at Arthur’s frown.

“What do you say, love?” he asks. “Can we give it a try?”

Arthur glances away, gnawing on his lip nervously.

“We already know that being friends doesn’t work,” Eames says.

Arthur nods slowly. “Okay. Yes.”

Eames stops short. “Yes?”

Arthur smiles brightly, brilliantly. “Yes, Eames.”

Eames crushes him close in a hug, unable to contain his delighted laugh. “Oh, thank God, darling.”

Arthur breathes deeply and presses himself against Eames. And Eames thinks he’s never going to let Arthur go again, because this is better than anything in the world, better than his first dream or his first Forge or his first job successfully completed.

Eames sighs happily. “I love you so much, Arthur.”

Arthur presses his nose against the side of Eames’ throat and hums contentedly, and everything is exactly as it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mouse: FLOS YOU ARE A MIRACLE WORKER
> 
> Flos: I AM HERE FOR YOUR VAGUE PLOT NEEDS
> 
> M: *sends MegaFluff Bestest Friend trophy blanket*
> 
> F: omg I've never received a trophy blanket before???
> 
> M: *proud nod* it's One of a Kind
> 
> F: I'd like to thank christopher nolan, for coming up with these characters, my overactive imagination for creating worlds in my head, and mouse for like letting my overactive imagination run wild and then writing it down into actual words
> 
> M: Awwwww *cheers* #FlosForBestTumblrChatBlanketTrophyAcceptanceSpeech
> 
> F: *bows*
> 
> M: *throws bouquets of flowers at stage like in the movies*
> 
> F: *gets hit by the bouquet because your writing causes me nothing but pain*


End file.
